


Not Young Forever

by Sinderella (MsrMoonlight)



Series: Can't Say No [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Colonial America, Foreplay, Frottage, Inexperienced England, M/M, PWP, Smut, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsrMoonlight/pseuds/Sinderella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England's morning routine in the Americas consists of waking, getting dressed, and gently shaking America awake. But something must change for change is the only constant, and something does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Young Forever

**Author's Note:**

> More gratuitous smut with colonial America, who now looks 13, and England is halfway between 16 and 17.
> 
> This is in my opinion far less steamy than the previous instalment. It consists mostly of exploratory foreplay (some of which are not remotely arousing to either America or England) that culminates in frottage. I found this very difficult to write, somehow, and you can probably pinpoint the exact sentence when I just gave up with the coaching and let America (once again) ravage England.
> 
> For reference, a shirt is a long garment, often falling past mid-thigh, and doubles as underwear when tucked under and around the groin in breeches because apparently 18th century Westerners had not yet invented underpants.

America has barely reached puberty when it happens for a second time. He is slightly taller now but still no higher than England’s chest, with flyaway hair the colour of corn and eyes more blue than a summer sky. It has been a decade since the incident in the office, and England has so far successfully prevented a repeat since.

He is awoken by a songbird chirruping on his window sill, and while the bed is soft and smells of sleep there is work that must be done, so England gets up to exchange his sleepwear for a more appropriate ensemble. He opts to leave out his coat because the summer has just started to grow stifling and heat always makes him drowsy, a less than optimal state in which to function.

America’s room is just down the hall from his, situated conveniently between England’s office and the drawing room. As he does every morning for his stay in the Americas, England knocks lightly on the boy’s door, carefully avoiding an unknown stain that has appeared between his last and current visit, and pushes the door open. It swings noiselessly inward.

England walks over to shake the boy from his sleep when he notices that America is not only already awake, but also seated upright against his pillows. “This is a surprise,” the empire remarks, smiling. He stops abruptly in his tracks, however, at the warm flush over his colony’s face that grows more obvious as he draws nearer. America looks up at England with large, tearful eyes.

“Make it go away!”

England sits on the edge of the bed and wraps an arm around the boy to tuck him to his side. On closer inspection, beads of sweat have accumulated on America’s reddened skin, which triggers all sorts of alarm bells in his head. “What happened?”

America swallows. His hands come up from their hiding place under the blanket to push the white fabric down over his legs and England is met, for the second time in his life, with an erect penis. America’s shirt is bunched up just above his crotch, gathered in a pool of loose linen at his waist.

England’s first reaction is to blush heavily and look away, but the tugging of America’s fingers on his waistcoat draws his attention back to the situation at hand and when England turns back he tries to look at anything but his colony. Musk that must have been there since the beginning is only now starting to become noticeable as England is startled into the knowledge that America has taken his first step toward adulthood, and it makes ignoring the boy’s predicament manifold harder.

“I caught your disease,” America pouts. “It hurts. Everything feels so raw! Help me, England.”

“A-America, this is a natural process of growing up. Your body is preparing itself for…intercourse,” England stutters. He did not expect to be having this conversation so soon. In fact, if he is honest with himself, he expects America, having already celebrated more than a hundred springs, to be old enough to know exactly what to do to relief his situation. It has not occurred to him that the demographic with whom the boy plays is probably not best equipped to address such issues.

“So this is normal?” America asks, confused. He thumbs his penis tentatively, snatching his hand back when it twitches at the touch. “It’s weird! Yours goes away when I rub it. You even liked it! Mine is just painful.”

England’s blush deepens dramatically as he is reminded of their intimate encounter some summers ago. It comes unbidden to mind whenever his is stimulated by the most innocuous of touches and is always followed by a frantic quashing of the memory (and burgeoning erection) such that England has never, since that day, allowed the situation to escalate again. France taunts that his sexual history is woefully lacking, but England is more than happy for it to remain this way if the alternative is to entertain fantasies of America licking his penis.

“You can either s-stimulate it to orgasm or take a cold shower to get rid of it,” England tells his colony, fixing his gaze on America’s face resolutely. He hopes that the boy will take up his second suggestion as he himself always has, though, as he eventually learns, picturing France naked is by far the least pleasant and therefore most effective method, and he does not wish a naked France on the boy no matter how desperate he is.

America scrunches his nose. “Cold showers are painful too.” He looks, trustingly at his guardian and England feels like his inexperience is more likely to lead America astray than help the situation any. “How does stimulation work? I tried to rub it like I rubbed yours but everything hurts.”

“W-well, you take your p-penis in hand and stroke it. That is basically all there is to it,” England stammers. He himself has always opted for a cold shower, but surely this is the time, if ever, when he finds some use at last for the purple prose about all manners of sexual acts he’s suffered hearing from France even if he himself does not actually apply what he’s unwillingly ‘learnt’. “Let’s move this to the bathroom—it can get quite messy.”

He helps America off the bed. The poor boy can barely stand as it is, but coupled with the fact that his hands are occupied with making sure his shirt doesn’t fall over and chaff the tip of his member, his gait is even more unsteady than it was when he first toddled over and chose England over France in a field of grass taller than the boy himself.

In the bathroom, England guides the colony into the tub, where he blushingly instructs America to remove his shirt and drape it over the edge. He puts America’s hands under the faucet, a luxury for which England is now immensely grateful, and says, “As you may already have noticed, it is not comfortable to, um, stimulate yourself without some form of lubricant to ease the friction generated by dry skin. You may also use p-pre-cum, that is, the fluid that you are secreting right now, but it’s probably better to start with more lubricant than less, which is part of the reason we’re here.”

America, hands now wet, grasps his penis experimentally and exclaims, delighted, “It’s much better now!” He grins at England, who is standing beside the tub staring fixedly at the tap. “So my saliva was actually pretty important back then, huh?”

Heat rises rapidly to England’s face. “Y-yes, well. You’re not wrong. Not all people are able to e-ejaculate satisfactorily from stimulation to their p-penis alone, so I recommend that you try, um, touching yourself in other places as well.”

“Like where?” America asks quizzically. He pats his hands down his arms, all the while looking extremely confused. “I don’t think this is helping, England. I touched you last time. Maybe you touching me will be more effective?” he suggests, glancing up at his guardian.

England is persuaded by America’s beseeching look into remembering France sighing happily about how a fleeting lover’s caress is far more satisfying than any self-loving, no matter how intense. He is reluctant to lay even a finger on his young colony but he does want America’s first blush with adulthood to be a pleasant one, and he has a very well proven susceptibility to the boy’s pleas that he knows resistance on his part never does persist. “All right,” he cringes as he says.

America grins. “Great! Will you join me in the tub? It’s weird if you’re standing so high up.”

The boy needs to stop saying such things if England is to live to see his second millennia. Regardless of his reservations about the necessity of getting in the tub with the colony, England gingerly removes his breeches, laying them over the edge of the tub to keep them dry, and manoeuvres his shirt so that it falls modestly to his thighs before stepping in. The porcelain of the tub is cold against his buttocks, and what little water in it freezes his blood as he stretches his legs out to either side of the boy and steadfastly covers as much of himself up as he possibly can with only a shirt.

America runs water from the faucet again. It mustn’t be all that cold if the boy isn’t shying away from the water, but England can’t imagine that winter can get any chillier than this, and surely his ears have never been this red even on the solstices. Lord, America is just a _boy_.

A boy who, at this very moment, is indecently exposed and looking at England expectantly with wet hands. England closes his eyes and prays for the mental fortitude he will require to guide America through this without himself becoming intimately entangled in the lesson. When he reopens them America is still waiting patiently and England thinks despairingly that he will not come out of this unaffected.

“Some people enjoy having the shell of their ear touched or bitten,” he offers, doing his best to recall the details of France’s conquests which had once been proudly regaled to him and promptly scrubbed clean from his mind.

“Really? Do you?”

“I don’t know,” England tells him honestly, feeling slightly self-conscious.

“Do you want to find out?” the colony asks, and moves into the space between the empire’s thighs to prop himself up on the tub with an arm at either side of England’s shoulders. America tilts his head slightly to eye his guardian’s left ear.

“A-America,” England says, strangled. “I’m supposed to be teaching you about yourself.”

“But you’ve always said to keep your mind open to learning new things; surely we can learn together,” America counters in a matter-of-fact tone, then leans in further to bite softly on the curve of England’s ear. When England remains unnaturally still, America mutters into his ear, “You can touch mine, England,” and presses one of England’s hands to his ear.

Each breath England draws is horrifyingly shaky as he slowly begins to trace the shell of his colony’s ear. He barely manages to keep from stumbling out of the tub by telling himself that he has rubbed America’s ear many times in the past when he was much younger, and this gesture is in truth completely innocent. He is also grateful that America’s ear nibbling has had no effect on his penis, which is thankfully not visible through his shirt linen. On the other hand, however, he can feel America’s poking his sternum as the boy continues to tug his ear with his teeth.

“Where else?” America asks, and his slight breathlessness triggers a silent flood of shame in England.

“Neck and collarbone,” England answers, clipped and reluctant, and the boy shifts his mouth immediately from the empire’s ear to his jugular, lips skimming the skin of his jaw on his way down. Some two hundred years later after the birth of Sigmund Freud in Austria, England will begrudgingly admit that the neurologist was on to something when he developed the idea of psychosexual development, though America appears determined to prove that the oral stage extends seemingly forever beyond the physical age of 21 months.

England kisses the boy’s hair tenderly, carding his fingers slowly through his golden strands. It is messy from sleep, he notes, and gently coaxes any wayward locks into place. If he can forget that America is now nearly a man, he can pretend that he is merely attending to the colony as a child. The smell of tall, swaying grasses has not changed, and neither has the lightness of his hair. But then America shifts and the boy’s stiff penis brushes against his chest and it suddenly becomes very difficult to hold onto the image of America as a toddler.

The tongue on his collar sears into startling awareness, as does the fleeting scraping of teeth against his neck, and England realises that he has stopped pressing kisses into America’s hair, and is instead panting and gasping into the colony’s ear. It must not be very comfortable for the boy, but when England tries to move, America chases his guardian’s lips and does not stop until England does.

“Where else?” America asks again, and this time his warm, moist breath on the hollow of his neck burns a path straight to his groin and England cannot stifle the moan that escapes his lips when he feels his penis starting to fill with blood.

“N-nipples,” England gasps.

America sits back on his feet, kneeling between England’s legs, and inspects the empire’s clothed chest. He promptly undoes the buttons on England’s shirt, pushing it aside to expose a flushed chest and two hard, pebbled nubs. England feels his face redden to match the scarlet blush on his breast. He had not previously known that nipples could become erect when aroused, and this is not, he thinks, the optimum time to find out, as America takes one of them between his fingers and gives it a light squeeze.

All his earlier resistance flees at the first barely there brush of skin against his nipples. He feels himself melting into a mortifyingly relaxed state and, as the boy begins to tug on both nipples with earnest, England loses his upright posture, slipping downward and further into the tub. He quickly tries to bend a leg to give himself some leverage against the slippery base of the tub, but he is not fast enough to stop himself before he slides, crotch first, into America’s knee and—oh, god!—America must surely know by now that England has found his ministrations at least minimally exciting.

The hand he has on America’s head tightens its grip on the boy’s hair as his other hand flies out to catch the edge of the tub to alleviate the simultaneous sensations of pain and pleasure that erupted as a result of his collision with the colony. America gasps when he feels his hair pulled, and England hastily lets go, “I’m sorry, America! Does it hurt?”

“N-no. It was okay. A bit good,” America tells the empire, letting his forehead come to rest against England’s heaving chest. “I mean, it hurt a little, but it wasn’t bad,” the boy elaborates, and his hands resume their teasing dance about England’s nipples.

England allows America to fondle his chest while he catches his breath, although it seems he may be losing more than he can recover when America grows bolder, flicking his fingers over the dusky pink nubs. When he attempts to haul himself backwards and away from the knees that are so very difficult to ignore, America whispers, “Stay.”

“W-what?”

“Don’t move,” the boy says. His eyes meet England’s, the blue of his irises more electrifying than the empire has ever known them to be, and England cannot refuse. He looks away from the boy and clenches his hands on the lip of the tub as the boy rubs slow circles around his nipples, and does his best to ignore as his penis steadily grows harder, pushing more insistently into the valley formed between America’s knees.

At the first press of hot lips against his chest, England gasps, loud and breathless and _aroused_ , which America appears to take as a sign of encouragement to begin sucking on his nipples. England feels his legs trembling on either side of the colony and the pressure on his penis becomes unbearable as he slips even further against America, strength drained from his arms as well.

“You can hold onto me; I won’t mind,” America says, and England thinks to himself that it is not a matter of whether America finds it acceptable to have his hair tugged or not. The problem lies with him, the guardian, who, far from teaching his charge how to discreetly deal with a situation on his own, is now possibly closer to climax than the boy himself, and who has, thus far, neglected his duty entirely in favour of being transformed into a shuddering wreck under his charge’s hands and mouth.

When England fails to respond to his suggestion, America gently removes one of England’s hands from its vice grip around the tub and places it on his nape, where it easily cups the base of his neck and brushes the tips of his hair. He gives it a soft squeeze before descending, once again, to suckle England’s nipples, which are raw and over-sensitised and filthy with saliva from his very thorough attentions.

England presses a thumb lightly into the dip between America’s neck and skull, and the boy makes a sound so wanton that it terrifies the empire. He is doing this to America. America, his charge, who trusts him and whom he reads to sleep every night. America, who must surely not know what he is doing. America, who ought to be protected from England and his roaming hands and insatiable lusts. America, who will hate him when he is old enough to realise that England has taken advantage of his trust when he is most vulnerable not once, but twice. America, who is currently carefully biting England’s painfully hard nipples because he thinks it makes England feel good, and the worst thing is that _he is not wrong_. It does feel good. It feels sinfully good.

England chokes back a sob even as he falls deeper into this endless chasm he has dug for himself, his other hand coming up to hold America closer as pleasure builds. His shirt is damp at the edges, having flirted with the wet belly of the tub, and it sticks to England’s thighs like a second skin. He is held up only by the grip his has on the colony, which is fast slipping as his naked penis, caught in the space between America’s knees, is stimulated every time he shakes and quivers.

He does not know precisely how he moves from half lying in the tub to being seated on America’s lap, though he does know that the colony has terrifyingly strong arms for his age. The boy offers England a pleased look when their penises first touch, which goes largely unnoticed as England tries his best to not white out from embarrassment and shock.

Gingerly, America extends his legs so that they stretch out behind England, eliciting a hiss from them both when their swollen penises rub against each other, sparse blond strands tangling hopelessly with England’s considerably denser pubic hair, and then bends them so that the empire sits easily against the slope of his thighs. England is torn between clinging onto his colony to lessen any shifting between them and letting go entirely because holding on is too much effort for his trembling hands. He manages a loose grasp around America’s neck, but only just barely.

England cannot fathom how the boy is still lucidly pinching and biting his nipples when he himself is almost delirious with sensations. The pressure on his penis increases dramatically when America moves to flatten a hand at the small of England’s back and uses it to pull their bodies closer together, effectively vanishing any notion of decency England may have ascribed to the now non-existent space between their bellies, and England jerks harshly and uncontrollably.

He feels more than hears America’s gasp as the colony’s chest heaves sharply and rapidly. It distracts America from laving his nipples yet more thoroughly, but unfortunately also redirects his hand from the empire’s chest to the aching organs between their bodies.

America wraps a hand around both their erections and drags it tentatively from base to tip, rubbing them at the slit like he used to on a summer’s day that England refuses to acknowledge ever happened. It sends a burst of heat through him and he helplessly arches his back as pleasure shoots instantly up his spine, in the process grinding their hips together and initiating a frantic positive feedback loop.

The situation escalates quickly from there, with England caught in the throes of pleasure and fire and America continuing to push against his guardian desperately, hand working feverishly around their throbbing penises. England once again experiences the familiar, terrifying loss of control that accompanies orgasm and the convulsions that heighten every sensation by increasing the friction between his body and America’s. His hands tense around the boy’s back, digging into soft flesh and developing muscles, and he clutches America so closely that he discovers that it is possible to become even more embarrassed than he already is.

Coming back to himself is particularly humiliating. He has fallen backwards until he is completely dependent on the perch of America’s thighs to stay remotely upright, his head thrown backwards in the haze of heat. America is wrapped around England, arms as locked around the empire as England’s are over him, and his breath is short and scorching on England’s ribs. Their softening penises are trapped uncomfortably between their bodies, still warm semen serving as a shameful reminder of England’s lack of control.

America is the first to untangle himself while England is too occupied with unsuccessfully willing the past half hour to be a disgraceful but harmless dream. England does not realise that he is crying until America bends down again to wipe the tears from his face, but when he does he does not stop until America has run the bath and washed all traces of their encounter from their bodies.

After they are dried and dressed, America asks quietly, “Do you hate me?”

England turns a strained but hopelessly affectionate smile on the boy, and says, “I could never, America. I will never stop loving you.”

He does not lie, but he allows America to believe that the tears are the outpouring of his love, not his shame.


End file.
